Tides of Rythe trt-2

by Craig Saunders

  “It is not her that does not like the light, it is her infection. Open the curtains and trust that I know what I am doing.”

  Reluctantly, Tirielle pulled back the curtains and daylight flooded into the room. The light from the girl’s eyes darkened for a moment, then returned blazing against the sunlight. Still the old man did not pull back, but he held the Seer’s hand kindly as she began tossing and turning. He whispered to her in his gnarly voice, and for some reason it seemed to sooth her. Her thrashing subsided, and the light from her eyes retreated, returning to what for her was a natural kaleidoscope of colours.

  “She is a Seer.”

  Quintal held Tirielle back from saying anything. “She may be, at that. What do you plan to do about it?”

  “Fear not, I will tell no one. I am a physician, not a snout. I hold no love of the Protectorate, and I know them for what they are. I have seen their work, healed their work, too many times to tell on an innocent. This too, is their work.”

  “Can you do anything for her?” asked Quintal. If he was suspicious of the old man, he didn’t betray it with his voice. His tones were calm and reasonable, as they always were.

  “I might, at that. This is a Protectorate disease, one that infests them and brings them power. The red light is a symptom, and in them it is accompanied by a ten-fold increase in power. It is unnatural in this girl. It does not belong here, and perhaps, because of that, I can banish it from her. But I make no promises.” He smiled sadly, showing his yellowed teeth. “But I work in private. Physicians have their secrets, too.”

  “I’ll not leave her alone,” said Tirielle firmly.

  “You can, and you will. I will not work with you looking over my shoulder, pretty lady. I fear the distraction would be too much for my ancient heart.”

  “Come, Tirielle, leave the man to work. She is in safe hands.”

  Reluctantly, Tirielle allowed herself to be led from the room. The Physician ignored them, as if he had already dismissed them from his mind, and peered once again into the Seer’s blighted eyes.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The Sard congregated in the common room of the Great Tree Inn. Disper had politely dismissed the owner, and bolted the door. There would be no distractions. How the Sard had afforded to rent the whole of the inn was a mystery that Tirielle would never solve. They had no wealth, she was sure, for she had never seen them spend any money. But somehow, they always got what they wanted.

  Tirielle sat with a tired sigh and took a drink proffered by Carth with a grateful nod. It was watered wine, but she did not mind. She did not feel safe enough that she wanted to be insensible.

  “You think she can be cured, Quintal?”

  “The physician has magic at his beck and call. I could feel it in him, even if he did not hide it so well. He is old, so his eyes can be passed off as cataracts, but he is of the white or I am a washer maid.”

  “The white? I have never heard of such.”

  “It is the colour of healing. I suspect that none in this city know his art. He could be a court physician but for fear of the Protectorate. Unless I miss my mark, he has spent his life in anonymity, healing the poor and living in squalor for fear of his secret being discovered. His potions he carries are merely props in his theatre.”

  “Then we have hope.”

  “Faint, I would caution, my lady,” said Disper, wiping ale foam from his great moustaches. I would not want you to be disappointed.”

  “But a healer with the arts — there is none such even among the rahkens.”

  “No, but the man cannot cure everything. The white are gifted, true, but they are no miracle. Some ailments are too fey for any hand to heal.”

  “I’ll not give up hope so easily,” said Tirielle, “and nor should you.” She took a sip of wine and sat back, discussion ended.

  Quintal smiled sadly and turned to the other paladins assembled in the common room. Tirielle did not have the heart to listen in. Worry for the Seer gnawed at her as she gnawed at a fingernail.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  In the brightened room red light flowed from the Seer’s eyes, like blood in water as the unnatural light met shards of sunlight drifting through the shadows. Reyland held the girl’s hand gentle and spoke to her softly, even though he was unsure as to whether she could hear him from whatever plane her mind was on.

  It was a malady unlike anything he had seen in all his long years of experience. Underlying the bleeding light were myriad colours. The red suffused all, almost like oil lying on pure water. He could sense the clean underneath, but the weight of the red held her down.

  Peering into her eyes he could see the other colours there, like a rainbow crumbling under blood red rain. He rubbed his eyes with his rough hands and sat back, away from the light. It hurt his eyes even to look.

  It was worse than he had first imagined.

  He remembered once, one of his many failures, a pickpocket he had tried to heal. The pickpocket had tried the wrong mark. His friend, both undernourished denizen of the Beggar’s Mile, had dragged him to the doorstep.

  One look at the boy’s head had told him magic was needed. The boy was unconscious, and that was a blessing. His skull had been misshapen, and white shards had broken through the scalp where his skull had been crushed.

  He had tried to use his magic to persuade those fragments to return to their natural place, but it had availed him nothing. The boys mind was so swollen from the blow that his brain failed as it pushed against the newly healed bone.

  That had been a hard day, as every day he lost a patient was. Sometimes he could keep a man alive, sometimes he saved a breeched baby, or staunched a deep wound to an organ…never could he save them all. But, as always, no matter the odds of survival, he would try.

  He lit an oil lamp and pushed the curtains further apart, for as much light as he could get. The girl writhed on the bed, straining against the covers, closing her eyes, but he sat atop her and pulled her eyelids open with his thick fingers. Her breath came in ragged gasps, but he knew the girl’s body was hale. It was just the infection fighting him.

  He took a deep breath and prayed to Yemilarion, the god of healers, and let his own light seep forth to meet the red. White light met red on a thousand different planes, and at first the power of the white pushed the darkness back. Reyland’s breath came evenly, his grip on the girl’s head strong. Then, a powerful pulse of light from the red and Reyland knew he was in trouble. Sweat began to bead his brow and he began tiring. His vision swam, and motes of red light floated away from him, dancing out of the grip of the white. The room filled with red light and Reyland could feel it seeping into his skin, his lungs, making it harder for his heart to beat, hard for him to breath. He could almost taste the taint on the air, even thought the infection should only be visible, not palpable.

  All the while the girl screamed, the sound pounding on the physician’s ears, driving nails into his brain. Still he did not blink.

  Gasping now, Reyland pushed harder. The red pushed back for an instant, then met the white in the room in a wavering line, one pushing forward, one pushing back.

  It was a contest of wills and it would not be won by brawn. It was all the physician could do to talk.

  “Any time you want to help me, girl,” he gasped, “feel free.”

  He wasn’t sure she had heard him for what seemed a long time, but was in reality only moments, and then from underneath and around the red light, an explosion of colour came, brighter than the sun. Reyland almost blinked, but forced his watery eyes to open further. The bright shards of light tore into his mind and he cried out in pain, just as the girl had before him. Still he did not look away. His heart pounding wildly in his chest, and his ears pounding from the girl’s scream, which grew ever louder, he pushed ever ounce of power from his eyes, drawing so much of himself and the light from the window into the healing that he thought he would burn himself out, his eyes bursting with the last vestiges of the ancient talent, never to heal
again.

  And yet he held. Quivering, he watched in amazement as the girl’s colours joined the fight, not destroying the red, but drawing it into her own colours, so that it joined an army of colours.

  Suddenly, the colours seemed natural again, and the girl’s cries ceased.

  Colours swirled in the sunlight, like a perfect prism refracting pure light. The thrashing underneath him stopped, and Reyland allowed himself to blink.

  The girl blinked too. And then she smiled.

  Reyland took a deep, shuddering breath and returned the smile. “I thought you’d be too much for me, girl,” he told her, his voice rasping with effort as he spoke, “but you’ve power I’ve never seen before.”

  “You, too, have powers unseen in an age. Thank you, Master Uriwane.”

  Reyland took a moment to register that the girl’s lips never moved. “Can you not speak?”

  She shook her head sadly. “Once, I could. But the battle has scarred me already, and I think it will scar me further before it is done. But the fight is not your concern, and you have healed me as completely as any could.”

  “I’m sorry, girl. I tried my hardest, but I fear it was more than I could handle. I have not seen the blight in many a long year, and have never fought it before. I am sorry you cannot speak.”

  “Do not be foolish,” she spoke into his mind, with more years than he would have expected from a mere slip of a girl. But she was a seer — the years had little meaning for her. What must she have seen, he wondered, while her mind travelled the planes?

  “I have seen much,” she told him, as if she had been reading his thoughts. “I have seen the birth of suns, the end of ages and the creation of new lands from the ashes. I have seen enough to know that there must always be balance. There must always be payment.”

  “I need no payment from you. We have already agreed the price.”

  “You cannot lie to me, Master Uriwane. I know what you need. It is not gold, but a reason to go on. Your good wife has been dead long years, and you never had children.”

  “I always wished…” his voice cracked, and he could not go on. He blinked in surprise, shocked at the depth of emotion that still remained after all this time.

  “Payment does not always have to be in money. There is a boy-child, thirteen years. He has led a life of the blind, his eyes are white, like yours. You must teach him. He will be your apprentice in the arts. You have years enough left to do so, and he will be greater in the arts than you. He will be like a son to you, and you like a father to him. Give him nothing but your love, and your wisdom, and he will grow.”

  She told him where to find the boy, and rose to a sitting position, hugging him fiercely. “Find your son, live long, Master Uriwane. It is good to feel kindness again. I am glad it was you who woke me from my dreams.”

  “And I was glad to know you, girl. What is your name?”

  She touched his cheek sadly. “I do not know. But I call myself Sia. Fitting, I think, that the name should match the purpose.”

  “I am old and foolish sometimes, but allow me to impart a little wisdom before I leave. You may be a seer, but you are not your purpose. You are a girl. Soon you will be a woman. Do not forget to live your life.”

  She nodded, thoughtfully. “Good advice, I think.”

  He rose and bowed as deeply as his back would allow. “Goodbye, Sia. Peace favour you.”

  “Peace be with you, healer.”

  He closed the door behind him, realising as he went that he had left his pack behind. With a rueful shrug and smile, he took the stairs.

  Tirielle was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairwell. “How did it go, Reyland? Is she cured? Could you help her?”

  “Peace, lady. She is fine. You may see her.”

  She hugged him fiercely with a cry of joy, and ran past the bemused healer, bounding up the stairs. Quintal shook his hand with thanks, and took a pouch out. Reyland laid a hand on top of the paladin’s.

  “Payment has been made, warrior. Peace favour you. Now, I have work to do.”

  The paladin’s watched him go.

  Quintal smiled. Soon, it would be time to go. But for now, they had new hope, in the face of a fresh girl. He called the barmaid down, and ordered himself a large drink. Time enough for a meeting later. For now, he was tired, and looking out the window at the full dark that had descended, he raised a glass at the receding, crooked back of the healer.

  “Some arts are greater than others,” he said to Cenphalph, who was watching him. With a sigh the leader of the Sard rearranged his dagger and sat to wait the night out.

  Upstairs, Sia wasted no time. She told Tirielle where she had to go, and of the pain she would yet have to bear. And yet Tirielle’s heart was light once again. One small success, sometimes, is enough to be going on with.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The boat sailed true across becalmed seas. Renir stood at the prow, hair whipped by the winds, spray wetting his face. Beside him, eyes wide open, stood Orosh. From his strange blue eyes light flowed forth, weighing down the seas, which were fierce beyond belief out of his range, but calm as a pond surrounding the boat.

  Shorn touched him on the shoulder and Renir jumped. The hum from Shorn’s sword should have warned him of the warrior’s approach, even if his soft foot falls had not. It was an ever present song, though, since they had joined the Seafarer’s vessel. He had grown so used to it that he ignored it now, its sonorous hum responding to Orosh’s magic.

  “I should have heard you,” said Renir in a self-admonishing tone.

  “It’s no surprise you didn’t. You’ve been staring out to sea for hours.”

  “I suppose I’m shocked. I knew the sea was large, but we’ve been out of sight of land for two days now. I’m waiting for land again. I feel uneasy, and I’ve spent hours on a boat before.”

  “Well, I’ve spent years on a boat, and I am always amazed at its size. The seafarers say the ocean is bigger than all the lands put together. You could spend your life at sea and never hit land.”

  “When will we get there?”

  Shorn, whose eyes were sharper than Renir’s, laughed. “I’m surprised you haven’t seen it yet. You’ve been staring at it for long enough.”

  Renir squinted, straining his eyes. There was nothing there but the endless expanse of blue, the suns high in the sky and a grey cloud sat across the horizon. Shorn waited patiently.

  Renir frowned. The cloud never moved…but it couldn’t be…the winds were so fierce, and the boat was travelling out to sea. “Is that it?” he asked, unsure as to what he was seeing but now sure it was no cloud. “Is that Teryithyr? But it can’t be. It should be to the north west, and we are travelling east…what is it?”

  “Not Teryithyr, of that you can be sure. That, my friend, is a boat.”

  “What?” said Renir. Disbelief rode his voice like the ship rode the waves. “But it almost covers the horizon.” Renir strained his eyes again. “It looks grey from here. Like the cliffs of the Spar.”

  “It is no cliff. It is our home — one of them. That is Daindom, the fifth ship of the fleet, and the largest,” said Orosh. “Would that we had land to call our own, but it serves the Feewar well.”

  “But it’s as big as an island! How does it stay afloat?”

  Orosh never took his eyes from the seas, but answered as if reciting from memory. “Until the Feewar find land again, the sea shall be our home. Until the seas fall, or land rises, the Feewar will sail. Our boats will grow, our magic is strong. Upon the great blue seas until the renewal.

  “It is what we are taught in the cradle — we are cursed to roam the seas until we find our land again, but we have been given gifts, too. There are those among us that can calm the stormy seas, and our ships are living things, grown from the Ulian, a strange tree that needs no soil, only sea water. It floats forever on the sea, as do our people. We live in harmony with the Ulian. Without it we would need land, and on land we sicken.”

  It was a
s long a speech as Orosh had made. Renir wondered quietly to himself why the Seafarers had been cursed in the first place, but he thought that impolitic to ask. I would have not thought on someone else’s sensibility before my journey, he thought to himself. Perhaps one day I will become a Thane, and keep the people happy with my new found thoughtfulness. Perhaps one day I will forget all about asking the questions that matter, and lead my subjects to destruction.

  He suppressed a smile. His subjects. He didn’t even have a home anymore, let alone a people to call his own. Delusional! Who would want to be a leader of the people?

  Instead, he asked “What do you eat, then? Stuck at sea, forage must be sparse.”

  “Wait, and you will see. Things are not always as they seem over the horizon.” Orosh replied.

  Renir waited at the prow, staring at the approaching leviathan. As their vessel drew closer to Diandom, Wen and Bourninund joined him, Bourninund in as deep awe as Renir, Wen with an expression of studied boredom on his dark face.

  “Big, ain’t it?” said Bourninund.

  Wen hawked into the sea.

  “As ever, the master of understatement,” said Shorn.

  “Why beat fancy with words when one will suffice?” said the dark warrior.

  As they approached Renir noticed he could make out features on the boat (island, he thought to himself. More island than boat.) There were cliffs, the brown of the Seafarer’s remarkable trees, and an inlet. It was a bay, and beached (for want of a better work — Renir thought he might have to invent a new word for what he was seeing) there were five boats, similar in size and construction to the one he sail on. Trees grew proudly upwards, but also sideways, on the deck (land? He wondered. It was the only word he knew which would suffice). People walked down to the lower ground from the main deck of the ship, all dressed as brightly as Orosh and his crew. They stood, outlined against the sky, watching their approach.